


Ghost

by Cephy



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Gen, Missing Scene, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-11
Updated: 2008-03-11
Packaged: 2017-10-06 21:45:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/58077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cephy/pseuds/Cephy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Returning to Rabanastre after Nalbina, Basch finds the Resistance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghost

"They knew," someone says in low tones, angry and despairing. "How could they have known what we planned?"

"An informant? A spy in our midst?" someone else asks, and is answered by dark mutters.

"It hardly matters now," Vossler says, placing both hands on the table. "What's done is done. We must focus, and determine what our next step will be."

"You always were a man for priorities," a new voice says, and in an instant everyone is up in arms, looking for the source. There is someone leaning against the wall near the door; Vossler is already making a note to speak with their guard before the voice and the face fully register, and then he's seeing red, stepping forward, pushing bodies out of his way. Grabbing the interloper by the throat and pushing him back against the wall with a snarl.

Far from giving the reaction he expects-- whatever that might have been: an easy parry and a grin, or a knife's edge and mocking laugh-- the man with Basch's face flinches, sucks in a pained gasp as his back strikes the stone. This close, it's impossible not to notice the ladder-rails of ribs, the shiny callous-edges from the rub of steel, the red stripes of scars. Impossible to miss the dank musk of the dungeon even mingled with the smell of flesh gone too long unwashed.

"Better call a hunt, boys," he says slowly, carefully. "It seems we've a ghost on our hands."

"Hardly that," Basch replies in a rasping voice.

"A skeleton, then," Vossler shoots back, leaning in. "You've certainly the look of one." And he does: arms that Vossler remembers easily swinging a sword are thin and wasted, whipcord over bone; the matted beard is the only thing hiding the hollows under Basch's cheeks. "Hardly worth the hunt; I should deal with you myself."

"If you would kill me," Basch says quietly, his eyes tired, "I pray you do it swiftly."

"I may. Though a quick death is no fitting fate for a traitor."

"I am no traitor," comes the fierce reply, and ah, _there_ is the tone Vossler remembers, at last, _there_ is the spirit-- Basch after all, then, and not some imperfect imitation. "I have never been, would never be. You know me, Vossler; you of all people cannot believe I would do what they say of me."

"I thought I knew you, once," Vossler says flatly. "But we have all been wrong about so many things." A silence holds for a moment, then, while tension bleeds to something dull and aching. Vossler backs away, his arm lowering, though Basch stays slumped against the wall where he is left. "Explain yourself," Vossler demands, quietly.

And Basch does-- a pretty tale, a twin brother and subterfuge and betrayals all around. There are murmurs from those gathered, some sounding skeptical and some wondering-- and the rub of it is, the tale is plausable, no matter how fantastic it sounds. Such a twisted plot is believable of Archades, whose warriors go hidden by masks and whose leaders speak pretty words with no substance. And family, the past, are sore points for many a soldier, and if Basch had never volunteered much about his own, well, Vossler had never asked.

The word of one against the evidence of many; hardly a question worth considering under any other circumstances. But when the many are those who stand to gain from lies, and the one is a man who had never been anything but honourable--

Impossible to know, after so long. Impossible that it would matter. Two years past time for any chance they had of salvation; all that stands to change now is one man's fate.

Vossler gestures sharply with his chin and walks off without looking, but he hears, senses, the footsteps falling in at his heels. Disturbing, how natural it feels to have them there, or perhaps more disturbing the fast-buried sense of relief that accompanies them.

He leads them to the adjacent hall, the room on the end, where he toes open a chest and then gestures towards the room's sunken corner. "Spare clothing and equipment," he explains. "If you find something that fits, you may take it. And you'll find soap in the corner, too, by the spigot."

"And a razor, I hope?" comes the wistful reply, and Vossler turns to find Basch with a long strand of hair pinched between his fingers, looking down on it with distaste. Again there is a moment, clearer now for the lack of shock: a moment of disorientation at having such a familiar presence wrapping in an unfamiliar form. The Basch in his memory is strong and bright and fierce, despite everything-- despite _everything_, yes, and damn himself for that hope that never quite went away. This man, though, is scarred and tired, weakened.

_Broken?_

Basch chooses that moment to look up, and when their eyes meet Vossler finds that old spark staring back at him, deeply banked but still there. Not broken, then-- for whatever good it may do.

"Come out when you're through," Vossler says abruptly, turning to leave-- cursing the traitorous part of himself that finds itself hoping this man had spoken the truth, the part that chants _alive, alive_ like a battle song. "We'll discuss your tale further then."

He tries, vainly, not to hear the quiet voice that trails out after him. "Thank you."


End file.
